


My father taught me not to starve

by ClairDePlume



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Irish Jack Kelly, Italian Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly Backstory, jack is going to suffer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClairDePlume/pseuds/ClairDePlume
Summary: -      My father taught me not to lie.-	Well, mine taught me not to starve. So I guess we both got an education.That was a lie. Everything in Jack’s life was a lie. A hard-cold lie. His name. Where he came from. What he did before being a newsboy. Everything, from start to finish, was a lie. He didn’t even have a father to begin with. Let alone a father who even could teach him a life-lesson.Before his new life, he had a mama, and then a job, but he'd rather go back to the Refuge than talk about that.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

\- My father taught me not to lie.  
\- Well, mine taught me not to starve. So I guess we both got an education.  
That was a lie. Everything in Jack’s life was a lie. A hard-cold lie. His name. Where he came from. What he did before being a newsboy. Everything, from start to finish, was a lie. He didn’t even have a father to begin with. Let alone a father who even could teach him a life-lesson. His mama never talked about his father. He had probably died soon after his birth. Or maybe he was just the kind of man that never stay very long. He might have just left one day.  
His mama always invented stories when he asked where his dad was. Sometimes he was a firefighter who died heroically while saving dozens of people. Sometimes he was a very rich man, with a big hat and a very elegant moustache, who lived in Paris, in the neighbourhood where all the artists were, with all of the colors and the very fancy cafes and he was waiting to make them all come to France with him and they would all have a nice time together. Sometimes, he lived in the west. Where there were plains as far as the eye could see and horses and he would ride his horse every day in the light of the sun.  
Thinking about it, he was probably just dead.  
Jack lived the first years of his life with his mother and uncle, in a shabby apartment that seemed to shrink around them a bit more every day. Their home was situated in a tenement, in one of those buildings that seemed like a house of cards, where, when watching it from the outside, you wandered how the basic laws of physics can even allow it to stand at such a leaning angle and once you stepped in, you prayed for the roof not to fall on your head. But Jack was used to it, he didn’t fear the fall of the roof, because the roof was the only he had ever seen.  
They had two rooms, which Uncle Theo always said was a luxury. One was a bedroom, where mama slept. It was just big enough to put a bed and an old hat box as a nightstand. The box was full of treasures. Old photographs his mama said were from his grandparents, back in Ireland. Long documents with complicated handwriting Jack did not understand. And even an old glass marble with a blue heart. Jack was sure he would impress all the kids in the block if he played with it, but mama never let him take it.  
The second room was the living room. Quite a big room, that was used as a kitchen, dining room, sitting room and whatever it could be used as. In a corner, Uncle Theo had arranged a little place for him to put his bed, with curtains to maintain the thin illusion of privacy between the three of them. Jack slept in a rugged armchair. Sometimes, when mama and uncle talked together, he would be allowed to sneak in mama’s room and sleep in her bed. And sometimes, she would sleep with him, her body warming his own in a confused hug.  
Jack loved his mama but something was off with her. It wasn’t always like that. He remembered a time when mama smiled and had sunshine on her face whenever she saw him. But over the years, her face became more and more tired. Black circles spread above her eyes, and her smile went down. She would leave very soon, to go work in the factory Jack sometimes passed, -and when he did, he saw the smoke going out of it and was always afraid it might catch fire- and she would come back very late, with her hands very red. Sometimes, she would immediately go to bed and forbid anyone to wake her up, because mama had to sleep. Sometimes, she would come back late and when she kissed him, her breath smelled bad and Jack would wince. But sometimes the bad breath made her joyous and Jack would watch his mom dance in the living room, and it would look as close as possible as her being truly happy. Sometimes, after she came home, he would hear his mama open the door when he was supposed to be asleep, and go out again. Maybe she went to see the stars. Jack would have loved to see the stars too.  
Mama became more and more distant. Nice but inaccessible. Her smile seemed taped on her face, and she would sigh when he asked about his dad.  
The real light in Jack’s childhood was Uncle Theo. Uncle Theo was mama’s brother. He had never married, because he said that he wasn’t interest in it, and he had lived with them since as long as Jack could remember. Uncle Theo was disabled since the time he got hurt in a battle in his short career in the military. Sometimes, during winter days, he would tell Jack stories about the wars he fought in, in order to distract Jack from the cold that slowly ate his fingers, as they didn’t have enough money to turn the heater on. And sometimes, he would let Jack draw all around his battle scar. Jack thought he was the best person ever. Since he got hurt, Uncle Theo limped heavily. He would always say himself that he looked like a tired penguin that had danced too much during the night. He received a small pension from the military, but he always complained that it wasn’t enough to repay him his life. Uncle Theo spent his days at home, carving up little wooden things in the logs that Jack carried for him. Spoons, and bowls, and toys, that he would sell later to people on the street. One time, he carved a little bird for Jack. That was his first toy. Uncle Theo was terribly nice.  
Jack didn’t like Irish. In fact, he hated it. The only time he heard it was when Uncle caught mama going out in the night, and mama and uncle would fight in ushered and frustrated shouts. The language seemed harsh, cold. It was always reproaches and screams and sighs, and Jack lied awake but kept his eyes closed so they would think he was asleep, because then, one of them would say “Sin agat é, dhúisigh tú Jack!” and they would know he knew something was bad and it would mean even more fights and ushered tones. So he concentrated on breathing like he was asleep and invented stories in his head to escape the terrible, terrible Irish words he hated. The only times he grew to love Irish were when mama would lean next to his ear and hug him and whisper “Mo bhuachaill beag…” and he felt like everything would be alright and he would feel warm and happy and loved even in the rugged armchair and even if there was mildew on the ceiling.  
But he would soon learn the sweet time would not last long. Happiness, in Jack’s humble opinion, was just a passing moment. A state that was never constant.


	2. Chapter 2

One day, uncle did not wake up. A few months before, Jack’s mom had come back home from a long day at work coughing and with her eyes red. She said she would be okay, with the usual smile taped on her face. She did, after a few days. She still went to work, even if she was sick, because they needed the money to buy the three potatoes and two carrots for the soup. When she came back, Jack and Uncle Theo would always be waiting for her, with an infusion of the precious dried leaves they kept in a jar on a shelf. They would give her the best blanket and try to make her warm. She went to bed even sooner than she usually did and felt very weak. So weak that sometimes she forgot to smile, and Jack would see how exhausted she was.   
After a week, she got better. But then, it was uncle who started coughing, and his eyes became red, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Mama would go to work, and Jack would be all alone with Uncle Theo. He wasn’t very fun to hang out with anymore. Jack would cling to his bed and talk to him, but uncle only half-listened. He still carried the wood, but the bundle would sit all day next to Uncle Theo’s chair, untouched. Jack asked him if he could make him a bigger bowl, because he was a big boy now, and he needed a bigger one, because then he would eat more soup and grow even faster, but Uncle just said he would do it. He still let Jack draw on his scars, but he didn’t laugh as much as he used to, because when he laughed, something felt like it was burning in his chest, and then the laugh would turn into a coughing fit.   
Jack spent all his day lying on the floor, inventing stories and trying to stay as quiet as possible to let uncle sleep. He cleaned the rooms as much as he could, to make the floor shiny when uncle would wake up. But it had been at least ten years since the floor last shined. He would also cook to prevent Uncle Theo from having to stand up. He burned and cut himself while doing it but at least they did have soup on the table.  
When mama came back, she would put her old coat on a hook on the wall, absent-mindedly brush Jack’s hair, and go to her brother, asking him how he felt, and if he thought he had a fever, and if he had eaten today. She would ask herself why she came home with that damn sickness, and uncle Theo would say that this was all the military’s fault, that made him lose his health, and his life. And Jack would look at the ceiling while playing with his bird, waiting for the adults to finish talking.   
One night, Jack heard the adults talking. It wasn’t hard. They usually talked in mama’s room, where they thought the thin walls would hide their conversations, but Uncle had not left his bed for four days. He listened carefully, eager to understand what was happening. He didn’t understand much, but what he knew was that things were not going good. Through his half-closed eyelids, Jack saw his uncle point the end of his bed to his mom. She reached the end of the bed and uncle talked, giving her quick instructions. She knelt on the floor and put her arm under the bed, looking for something. The arm emerged with an old metal box, which she gave to Uncle Theo. He waved for her to sit down on the edge of the bed. She did, carefully, like Uncle would break like a vase thrown at the floor if she sat too close to him or moved the bed too much. He took the box from her hands and opened it. Jack couldn’t see what was inside, because he would have to shift his position on the armchair if he wanted to, and this would draw attention to him. Still, he saw Theo take something out of the box, something like a small stack of money, and place it in mama’s hands. Mama opened her mouth. She looked terribly angry and worried and she even half-shouted a “no!”, which made both mama and uncle turn toward Jack to see if he was still asleep. He hurriedly closed his eyelids and calmed his breathing. That night, Jack didn’t dare to open his eyes again, even if the discussion continued and he felt a terrible, terrible feeling in his stomach.  
The days went by, silent and long and with that weird atmosphere that kept telling Jack something would go wrong but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what would. Uncle smiled tiredly. And shuffled his hair more often. He would say things that did not sit quite right with his usual character, like making him promise things, or talk about what they should do if he wasn’t there anymore. Jack laughed and told him it was useless to talk about, because he wasn’t going to leave them, right. And uncle responded that “no, it was an absurd idea, uh?” with fleeing eyes and his hands clutched to his bedsheets.  
One day, though, Uncle didn’t wake up. Jack didn’t notice immediately. He thought that he was just having a good sleep. Mama always said he needed a lot of rest. He went on with his life, cleaning the room, and cooking, and drawing on a scrap of paper he found on the table. But when noon came and Jack had done all the chores, and cleaned, and cooked silently, he decided it was time for Uncle to finally wake up. After all, he needed strength and so he needed to eat, right?   
He called his name, but uncle didn’t respond. He had always been a heavy sleeper, after all. He carefully went to uncle’s bedside. But when he touched his arm to wake him up, Jack immediately felt that something was wrong. His arm was stiff. And cold. And when he looked more closely, his chest wasn’t rising when he breathed. Jack was young, but he knew that meant something very, very bad.   
He ran to the neighbours’ appartement and knocked as hard as he could. Everything was a blur. He grabbed Mrs Rosenthal’s hand, even though he hated her because she always said he was too noisy, and made her run to the room. She looked at Uncle in the bed and tried to take his pulse. After a while, she said nothing, but passed her hand on his face and put his arms straight alongside his body.  
Jack knew enough about life to know that he would never see uncle smile again. He had seen another dead person before. Mr Samwell’s wife, when she had died two years ago. Uncle Theo now had the same pale complexion and rigidness as her. But seeing it on uncle Theo made Jack want to vomit.  
Mrs Rosenthal hurried him to her apartment and told him to seat on the chair she pointed. He sat. All around him, he could hear the whispers of the dozen of seamstresses she kept in her secret sweatshop. One of them ruffled his hair. Another gave him a little piece of sugar. But Jack didn’t eat it. He was uncapable of eating anything.   
He felt like he was supposed to cry. Like a big dam was just waiting under his eyes to release all the tears he had in his body. But the dam didn’t want to break. He sat there, with cotton in his ears, in the room filled with people, and neighbours coming, and shouts, and he didn’t say -or think- anything.  
He heard the women say “we’re not going to call his sister. She needs the money she making right now. And what good could it make if she comes homes now or in a few hour. It’s not like he’s going to run away, huh?” and “poor little boy” and “that’s how life goes”, and “serves them right for being so lazy” but he didn’t want to hear it.  
When mama finally came home, after all these hours on the chair, Jack saw that she had cried. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes were red. Jack’s cheeks were still dry. But his soul felt weirdly wet. She looked at him, looking desperately tired, and did not have the smile taped on her face and did not ruffle his hair. People were asking her questions and all she answered was “I don’t know”.   
Jack slept in Mrs Rosenthal’s apartment that night. The last thing he heard before falling asleep was mama saying “we don’t even have black clothes…”. And he slept with the disagreeable sensation that Uncle’s cold body was laying in his bed in the apartment next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it :) i really am trying to be productive, but it's so complicated !

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys ! This is my first story here and english is not my native language, so please tell me if I made any mistake ! And don't hesitate to leave a quick review :)


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